Starlight in Summer -- Alternate Universe
by ChequeRoot
Summary: In Springfield, North Tacoma lies a nuclear power plant, built by two men: one who died, and one who lived. C. Montgomery Burns watched his friend and partner Waylon Sr. die that fateful day... but what if that never happened? In a world of infinite possibilities, two men rule Springfield side by side with their son. These are pages from their lives. [AU][GiftFic]
1. And So It Begins

_**Author's Note:**_

 _This is an Alternate Universe gift-fic, and a work in progress; written for Cuttletoon, and Gabrielcic. It may take me some time to finish, though I have the outline and most of the body complete. What would've happened if Waylon Smithers Sr had not died that fateful day at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant? How different, I think, life would've been for C. Montgomery Burns, and Waylon Smithers Jr as well. It will be presented in short chapters, offering a few snapshots into the lives of this not quite 'nuclear' family._

 _ **Cuttletoon:**_ _It's wonderful to meet someone who shares my love of the BurnsSr ship. I think it's perhaps one of the most complex and underrated pairings. I've delighted in our long chats and discussions about the nature of their dynamic; our messages back and forth, and hearing your ideas play against my own. Thankyou for the feedback you've left here, and for the messages we've shared across different sites._

 _ **Gabrielcic:**_ _Your artwork is amazing, and inspired several settings in my Nuclear Attraction piece. Your knowledge of victorian floral language and symbolism is uncanny and refreshing. The art you've gifted me is phenomenal. I don't even know how to begin to say "thankyou." I am also greatly appreciative that you were kind enough to grant me permission to use two of your pieces; pieces that are now proudly displayed on a sticker on my truck._

 _Being able to forge connections like this is one of the things that makes the internet great, I think: the ability to share ideas across the globe, and meet people who have common interests. Believe me, if we were still in the dark ages I grew up in before the visual internet (though we did have eventually usenet), I'd never be able to see the stunning artwork, or read the words of so many fascinating people as I can today._

 _Thankyou again! I hope you appreciate this; it's for you!_

 _~ Muse_

* * *

 **AND SO IT BEGINS...**

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there; I did not die.

. .

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

. .

The journal contained a rather convoluted entry, and he struggled to make sense of it. Waylon always did have an odd way of writing. Very stream of consciousness. Monty felt some measure of guilt that he was peeking through Waylon's journal, but he couldn't help himself. And it wasn't like he'd actually opened the book. Waylon had left it open on his desk again.

 _Permit me, if you will, this introduction. If it seems complicated, I understand. This science, philosophy, whatever it is doesn't come naturally to me. Hugh Everett has his "many worlds" theory. As best I can tell you it means that every possible outcome that can happen does happen. Flip a coin, it lands heads on your hand? In some other 'where' it landed tails. Odds are, that difference will make no difference, and both universes will hum along with minimal differences. At least that's how I understand it. Sometimes though the changes can be profound._

 _Maybe you're flipping that coin to see who drives home from the bar, and perhaps you're the one who drives home, even though you think you probably shouldn't. You crash the car (or you don't). Your friends die (or they live), or you're the one fatality (or not). Or you make it home safe and vow not to drive home drunk again… Perhaps you learn a lesson, maybe you don't. Ultimately, it begs the question: does any of this matter?_

 _I like to think it does. I like to believe that every tiny bit, however seemingly insignificant, can send brand new multiverses spinning into existence: little newborn worlds, ripe with potential. When I think about that at night, it makes me feel less small somehow._

 _Looking up at a star-filled sky can make anyone feel tiny and insignificant… but it shouldn't!_

 _Out of all the potential of entropy: the way the universe tends to write out unnecessary parts or sacrifice loved ones on the altar of destiny. When you look up at the sky, stop and consider the fact that in all the multiverse, the one thing you can be sure of is that you're here now, that you exist! If that doesn't get you to realize the value of your existence, then I can't think of anything that would._

 _I can't say I know much about quantum physics, that's not really my thing. But I have learned a few truths over my years on this world. I suppose they're more philosophy than science. But here it is:_

 _Next time, when you find yourself alone, and feeling overwhelmed, look at that sky and remind yourself "I'm here, I exist, and despite what anyone tries to make me believe, I AM significant!"_

 _And know that in a potentially infinite set of universes, we are here, now, and it is all oh so very real._

* * *

The clock neared five in the afternoon. Waylon Smithers Sr. sat at his desk, trying to find the right words to say what was on his mind. A day of writing a few lines, then crumping the paper into the bin. It was, perhaps, the great irony that ideas and emotions could be felt so easily, yet playing them on paper proved the greatest challenge of humanity.

He was so absorbed in his task he'd completely lost track of time, blocked out the distractions of the world. Nothing could've shocked him more than what happened next.  
Every light in the plant dimmed with a loud hum, then the power surged. The bulbs flared in almost blinding intensity before the main breakers tripped, plunging everything into darkness. Less than a second later, the battery powered emergency lights came on, followed almost instantaneously by the warning lights. The corridors were bathed in blood-red tones. A warning klaxon began to blare with strident urgency.

Waylon snatched up his son from the playpen, and ran into the main hall, nearly colliding with Montgomery Burns who had come barreling around the corner at a full sprint, hair and eyes wild.

"Will you put that baby down," Monty implored frantically. "There's something wrong with the reactor core."

Waylon Sr. shoved his son into Monty's arms and raced to the containment unit. He skidded to a halt outside the heavy lead-lined hatch. A quick glance at the gauges next to the door confirmed his suspicions. "I better go in and have a look." Not even wasting time to lead up, he grasped the wheel-lock in his bare hands.  
Monty realized what the man was about to do.

"No," he screamed, grabbing Waylon by the collar of his lab coat. "It could be filled with atoms and steam and other nuclear brickabrack.

Waylon shrugged himself free of his coat, leaving it dangling in Monty's hand. "If this reactor blows, the whole town is doomed… including my son." He gave the wheel a final spin, opened the hatch, and with that he plunged himself into hell…

... Except...

... That never happened.

The clock lazily hit five, then five fifteen. Waylon Sr. looked up felt an involuntary chill run up his spine. He shivered, watching goosebumps rise on his arm. "Someone just stepped on my grave," he muttered, and shuddered. Just as quickly, the moment passed. Waylon Sr. gathered his papers and slung his well-worn satchel over a shoulder. He scooped up Waylon Jr, and headed home.


	2. When Stars Collide

Waylon sat at a small table on the balcony off his spacious bedroom. He was writing in his journal again. His young son was crawling on the floor by his feet, chewing on the ear of a plush Doberman toy; a gift from Monty. _The boy needs a hound to call his own_ , Monty had announced, presenting Waylon Jr. with the stuffed animal. _This one will be safest till he grows older._

Waylon took his watch out of his pocket, the golden lion-faced watch Monty had given him, and glanced at the time. It was about seven, though the long summer nights made it feel earlier.

"Bedtime for you isn't it, little man," he remarked, scooping up Waylon Jr. He fed and tended to the child with the gentle devotion that came naturally to him, and tucked Waylon Jr. into his crib. "Goodnight, Waylon Jay," he muttered, "I love you." He gave his son a kiss on the cheek, then slipped out, closing the door behind him.

He padded quietly down the hall to the room his shared with Monty. He rarely ever slept in his room anymore. He liked to get Waylon Jr. to bed at a reasonable hour, though he tended to stay up long into the night when he was working on a project. It would hardly do to keep his son awake with him.

It seemed more natural to sleep in Monty's comfortable master chamber, in many ways.

Monty was out at the moment, probably off taking a twilight prowl around the grounds with his dogs. The man said he did his best thinking at night. Waylon smiled, and felt a sudden desire to find Monty, accompany him on the remainder of his evening walk. Sure, it might seem like a daunting task, to track down a single man on the dozens of acres that comprised the estate, but Waylon knew Monty's habits better than anyone. Monty was a creature of habit.

Waylon grabbed his hat and walking stick from the coatrack by the door, and set out; pausing briefly to inform Cordelia that he would be out of earshot of Waylon Jr., should the boy wake.

Cordelia was Burns' choice. He'd hired her to help Waylon oversee the care of his son. Parenting is a full time job in and of itself, my man, Burns had remarked. There's no shame in taking on a bit of assistance now and then.

At first, Waylon had resisted the idea of a nanny. _I don't want some stranger raising my son_ , he protested. Waylon's other concern had been that adding another round-the-clock employee to Burns Manor might shed too much light on certain aspects of the private life he and Monty shared.

Monty had done his best to soothe ruffled feathers. _She won't be taking over your job. She'll just be helping you out, allowing you a degree of freedom your paternal conscience would otherwise not permit._ Burns patted Waylon's hand. _Don't worry, dear friend, you will, and always shall be the boy's number one. As for the rest?_ Burns waved a hand. _No need to fret that either. I've chosen her from a very careful screening of, eh, trusted and discrete individuals. Believe me, after a few days, you'll hardly give a second thought to her presence. Trust me, on this._

Waylon Sr. did just that, and later had to admit Monty was right. He never would've felt comfortable leaving Waylon Jr. alone, even while he took a short walk. He had warmed up to Cordelia, in her pleasant but soft-spoken ways. She didn't comment, didn't judge. The most she'd ever said, in regards to the Monty and Waylon's sleeping arrangements was that her job was to tend the child, not judge his fathers.

Fathers! Ah, what a word, to choose, Waylon thought trying to hide his grin. He nodded as stoically as he could, and thanked her for her discretion; all the while, his heart was singing in his chest. Fathers! What a wonderful way to think of it. All his life, Waylon had wanted to be a family man. Now, here, he finally was. Perhaps it wasn't the traditional family, but it was everything he could've hoped for, and more.

* * *

It didn't take Waylon long to find Monty. The man was sitting in the deep grass beyond the formal gardens, watching the moon rise.

Much to Waylon's surprise, Monty hadn't brought the hounds with him. He sat alone, blue eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight, face upturned, basking in milk-white glow of the half-moon.

Waylon came, and sat down next to him.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Waylon asked softly, slipping an arm around Monty's waist.

Monty glanced over at Waylon and smiled. "My dear man, my thoughts are worth far more than than." He chuckled. "I figured you knew that by now." Monty hooked a lean arm around Waylon, and drew the younger man closer.

They sat in silence, looking up at the sky.

"What do you see up there?" Waylon finally asked.

Monty raised an eyebrow. "Infinite possibilities."

"That's it?" Waylon teased.

Monty chuckled. "I see a thousand ancient suns, some obscured by the domineering sheen of the moon; others still powerful enough to shine through. Some of those stars died long ago, yet we're only now seeing their light. This is as close to infinity as we'll ever live to see, my dear. This moment, right here. A thousand, a hundred thousand tiny worlds spinning away from each other forever."

Monty shifted his weight slightly, leaning against Waylon and into his arms. Waylon pulled Monty close, and buried his face in the older man's hair.

"'Spinning away,' huh," he murmured, breathing Monty's delicate scent.

Monty raised his face to Waylon's. "But sometimes," Monty whispered, "they plunge towards each other. And sometimes," he paused, "they even collide."

With that, his mouth found Waylon's. They kissed, softly at first, then passionately. Monty had his chest against Waylon's now, and Waylon felt a sort of desperate intensity to their embrace. He leaned back, pulling Monty atop him as he rolled backwards into the tall grass. Monty's severe yet beautiful visage was backlit by the starscape, the infinite beyond.

Waylon felt Monty's hands slide under his shirt and flow like spring water, quenching his hot skin. He shivered delightfully, despite the warm air. Somewhere, Monty has cast off his shirt. Waylon wasn't even sure when. All he knew, as he grabbed Monty's bare shoulders, felt the man's naked chest again his bare skin, that in all the whirling worlds out there, in this one he was never letting go.


	3. The Journal of WJS: Muir's Mountains

**From the Journal of W.J.S.**

I've been reading some poems by Lucille Clifton lately. Tried to get Monty to read them, but he's not interested. He finds the freeform style a bit disconcerting I suppose; he said it gives him a headache. It perplexes Monty why I would even read it. He likes very structured pieces, with footing and meter. I suppose it's a good metaphor for us: he has his rigid habits, and I tend to be more adaptable. Even his own caprice follows a pattern. He's like the tides, Monty is: his moods rising and falling, never the same way twice, but still dependable.

I caught Monty playing with Waylon Jay down by the library today: they were sitting in a sunbeam, Waylon Jay with his feet tucked under himself, and Monty laying on his belly, propped on his elbows; Malibu Stacey, or perhaps that should be plural (Malibu Stacies) in her many different personas were in their hands.

I don't entirely know how the first Stacey found her way into the manor. I, most assuredly, had nothing to do with that. It would've never occurred to me to think our son might be interested in her. I suspect Monty. She didn't walk in here on her own. I just remember coming to wake Waylon Jay for breakfast one morning, and there she was, on the nightstand next to his bed, in all her plastic glory. When I asked Monty about it, he denied everything. He's undoubtedly guilty. Slowly, but steadily, Stacy, in her various incarnations, has been taking over Waylon Jay's room. I object, lovingly, on principle. Both Monty and Waylon Jay know I don't truly mind. It gives them something special to have together: a little game I am politely excluded from; and I am okay with that.

I couldn't help but watch though, as they played in that radiant light by the window. I moved close enough to listen in. A tea party, apparently, with Stacey playing host to my dear Monty and son; and coaching them on proper etiquette.

Monty agreed with her: "social graces are very important, Ms. Stacey," he nodded. "From the Victorian era to the modern day, such graciousness shall never go out of style." Waylon Jay giggled and put a different hat on Stacey.

Ah, the delightfully brief attention span of the young. He's growing up so fast. Monty and I have started the debate of which school to send him to next season. I, of course, think Springfield Elementary to be just fine. Monty wants something more exclusive, but neither of us can bear to entertain the idea of a boarding school; no. I couldn't bear the thought of him leaving us.

So thinking, I watched as Monty switched out a different hat, and the tea party morphed into an impromptu fashion show. It's something I can't exactly get into, but even I must admit Monty's always had more the flair for style than I. I've learned to trust his judgement in such things, even if it means he fusses over me like I am his own living doll. I know he means well, I know it's his way of expressing his heart.

He fusses over Waylon Jay in much the same vein. The boy has more patience for it than I. He and Monty make a perfect pair when it comes to couture around Burns Manor. Me? Well, I indulge them. That's my nature, after all. I daresay Waylon Jay will grow up to be quite the darling in his fathers' eyes. I would've never pegged Monty for the paternal type, but watching in how he dotes on our boy, I think fatherhood suits him far better than he'd ever let on.

I still don't know quite how Malibu Stacey and her friends have managed to infiltrate the manor, but I think, were she suddenly to leave, she'd be missed by Waylon Jay and Monty alike. Would I miss her? Naturally, because she's become such a shared game between those two, and I have no desire to see them lose that bond.

* * *

 **From the Journal of W.J.S.**

Monty suggested we go on a little vacation this weekend, just the two of us. It's the first time we've left Waylon Jay behind. He's not happy about it, but Monty pointed out we do need to make sure we make time for us as well. He'll be fine under Cordelia's watchful eye.

I asked Monty where we were going, and he said it was a surprise.

Johan loaded our bags into the car, then returned to the house. Apparently, we're not bringing Johan along either. I was going to drive, but as I had no idea of the destination, naturally, that fell to Monty.

He took us up north, into the mountains. I hadn't realized he owned land up there as well. He has a small cabin that overlooks Gapejaw Vly, between the Storm Hills and Blue Ridge. I've never been this far into the wilderness before. It was a several hour drive. I see now why Johan also packed a full complement of food; and a cooler with such things as milk and eggs. Out here, above the valley, there isn't another sign of civilization for miles.

It's isolated, breathtaking, and inspiring all in one.

Here, a man can hear himself think. John Muir, that Scottish-American naturalist would have been blessed to find a more serene spot than this. I must confess, I had no idea Monty would ever enjoy the solitude of nature. He always seemed, to me at least, such a creature of the urban clime. Monty must've read my mind. As we unpacked the car, he took me by the hand, and lead me to a great rocky outcrop, the edge of a cliff that afforded a view stretching easily a hundred miles, and more.

"Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer," he said as he kissed me on the lips. I realized he was reciting a line from memory, but couldn't quite place the quote.

"Camp out amoung the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature's darlings." His fingers wove themselves through my hair. "Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees."

Now he pulled me against him, my chest to his, and I could feel the pulse of his heart and lust against my own. "The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As a comes, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but nature's sources never fail."

With that, he drew me in, covering my mouth with his; and I followed his lead, tasting him in all ways my soul and body so yearned for. All too soon though, he withdrew, and ran a thumb over my glistening lips. "My dear Waylon," he purred, "I suppose you think me nothing but a tycoon of industry, a capitalist mogul who views the world as nothing more than a resource to be tapped."

I struggled to find words, but his embrace had left me mute. I could but nod dumbly as my eyes ran over his body.

He smirked, and straightened his coat. "We all have little aspects of our nature we like to keep hidden. While it is true that I find great pleasure in the material comfort of society, it is also true that nothing quite invigorates the soul like watching thunder crash along the mountainside."

I glanced up at the clear blue sky. There was not a cloud to be seen. "It looks to be a perfectly calm afternoon," I remarked.

Monty laughed, and the next thing I knew his hands were around my waist once again. "Well, if that proves to be the case, my friend, I suppose we'll have to make our own lightning storm." He ran a finger teasingly low across my abdomen, turned on a heel, and trotted back to the cabin.

I stood there at a loss for a moment.

Under the bright sun, with nothing but the sweet wind and birdsong to distract me, I followed my lover, intent on capturing his lead.


	4. The Education of Waylon Jr

"You're adamant about this, aren't you," Monty remarked, staring levelly at Waylon Sr.

Waylon squared his broad shoulders, and crossed his arms. "Absolutely."

"Springfield Elementary seems positively unsatisfactory for the boy. Why, I'm sure we could find a much more suitable academic regime for him. Perhaps even a private tutor, hmm?" Monty tented his fingers. "Teach him the finer niceties? Latin, arithmetic, ancient history?"

Waylon shook his head. "No. He needs to get out of the house, make some friends his own age."

Monty snorted. "He'll be intermingling with the lowbrow townish simpletons and their pathetic offspring in that motley schoolhouse." He tilted his chin, and looked smugly down at his partner; as if the matter had been decided.

Waylon took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He did his best to keep his temper controlled. "Really Monty? Townish simpletons… like me?"

Monty paled slightly.

Waylon raised himself to his full height, which still put him a few inches below Monty; but his broad shoulders and thicker frame made up for the difference. "People who grew up, blue collar in Springfield? People who had to live frugally, and didn't necessarily have the chance to be educated in Europe?" He took a step forward, brows lowering. "Keep him away from the commoners, eh? Like you've forgotten where I came from?"

Monty held up his hands. "No, no. I didn't mean you." He swallowed nervously. "I meant other Springfieldians."

Waylon folded his arms across his chest. "Oh really," he stated. It was not a question.

"I mean the pathetic wage slaves who are cursed to live within the confines of a lower tax bracket. How on earth can we expect the boy to achieve his potential if he's stuck rubbing elbows with the progeny of that class?"

"Like my parents?" Waylon's voice took on a warning tone. His hazel eyes flashed. "Why yes, Monty. How indeed can a poor, humble family of Springfield ever hope to produce anything worthy of your notice. I'm sure it's impossible."

Monty took a step back, hands still raised in supplication. "Gah, you misunderstand me, man! I don't mean you, or your family. You're different."

"Oh? How?"

"Well, for starters, I know you-"

Waylon jabbed a finger at Monty, interrupting him. "-Aha! See, there you go. You know me. And you don't know them. So before you judge, let me tell you: Springfield's full of good people, smart people, hard-working people. Alright, sure, Springfield's not full of people like you!" He snapped his fingers. "With your wealth and power and family name. But I daresay that makes you the anomaly, Monty; not me. Springfield's my town; my people. Waylon Jay is going to Springfield Elementary, and that's final."

With that, Waylon stalked out the study, shutting the door hard behind him.

Monty Burns stood frozen for a second, hands clutched to his chest. He realized he'd been holding his breath. Lion of the Atom nothing, Monty thought as he ran a hand through his hair. That man truly is the master of his domain. Monty shook himself, almost like a dog, and straightened his shirt collar. I hope I never have to see him verily enraged. His 'mild annoyance' is more than enough. So thinking, C. Montgomery Burns pulled out a phone directory, and began looking up the number to Springfield Elementary.

* * *

Breakfast at the Burns household was a family affair. Typically, the formal dining room was avoided and breakfast was usually taken in the solarium. Waylon Sr., Monty, and Waylon Jay would eat together before the men went to work, and Cordelia took charge of young Waylon Jay's activities for the day.

Johan would stand off to the side, watching but never partaking in the meal. He was the head steward, Monty's houseman; and not part of the so-labelled family.

"You're going to be starting school this fall," Waylon informed his young son as the boy happily munched his cereal.

Waylon Jay looked up, chewing. His brown eyes quizzical. "But I don't want to," he remarked.

("Don't talk with your mouth full," his father chided.)

Monty smiled indulgently. "Well, unfortunately, sometimes want has precious little bearing on what one must do. I'm sure you'll find it…" he looked over at Waylon Sr. as he struggled for words.

"It's a great opportunity," Waylon Sr. finished. "You'll learn new things, make new friends, go on field trips to exciting places... You're growing up, and this is all part of that."

Then came the questions-and-answers period. Young Waylon Jay, small for his age, but keenly observant asked questions about school, and growing up, then finally the important one: could Malibu Stacy come to school with him?

Monty and Waylon Sr. exchanged knowing looks.

"It's best she stays home for now," Waylon Sr. replied. "She's already been to school. When you get home though, she can help you with your homework, right? She probably knows all the answers."

Waylon Jay bobbed his head eagerly. "Okay."

Monty gave an approving nod to his partner. _Handled that one well_ , he mouthed silently.

* * *

Waylon Smithers, Sr. strode confidently into the principal's office at Springfield Elementary. He had a leather messenger bag in one hand, blazer held over his shoulder with the other.

The young man at the desk, a fellow with black hair and a thick neck, looked up in surprise. "Ah, good morning, sir. I wasn't expecting you so early." He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Waylon smiled and draped his jacket over the back of the chair before sitting down. "Thank you." Waylon glanced at the clock. "I thought our meeting was at nine this morning." He looked at his pocket watch to confirm the time.

The man behind the desk rubbed his hands together. "Ah, well no matter. I'm glad you have you. It looks like you're enrolling your son in our school, Mister Burns?"

Waylon blinked in surprise. "Burns? Ah..." He furrowed his brow. "Isn't Principal Graham still here?"

The man shook his head. "Unfortunately, he had to go on medical leave. A bad heart, you know. I've been brought in to take his place." He rose and extended a hand. "Acting Principal Chalmers."

Waylon rose and shook his hand. "Waylon Smithers."

Now it was Chalmers' turn to look perplexed. He glanced quickly down at his planner. "I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were Mister Burns. I have a nine-thirty new student meeting with him." He turned the pages. "I don't actually appear to have anything scheduled for nine this morning." He looked up apologetically.

Waylon ran a hand over his moustache. "I see. Well, I have all my son's paperwork right here," he patted the satchel. "If it's no bother to you, we could get started now."

Chalmers shrugged. "Absolutely. So, you're looking to enroll your son in Springfield Elementary this fall…"

He'd barely began to speak when the office door flew open and C. Montgomery Burns swept in like a whirlwind.

"Ah, dash it all," Monty snarled. "Traffic in this part of town, at this hour, simply dreadful. I was afraid I'd be late." He shut the door, then noticed Waylon sitting calmly in one of the chairs. "Ah, Waylon, what on earth are you doing here?"

Waylon narrowed his eyes slightly. "A prospective student meeting with Principal Chalmers here," he replied, gesturing to the young man at the desk. "What brings you here?"

Monty straightened his back and tried to look in control. "Why, I had a nine-thirty meeting with this fine gentleman. I made it last week."

"I see."

"I told Johan to tell you I'd be here this morning."

Waylon pursed his lips. "The message I got was that you'd made a nine AM meeting appointment for me."

Burns sat down. "Confound it man, that is not what I told him to tell you."

"Evidently there was a miscommunication."

"Clearly." Burns tented his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Well, never mind that. I suppose we'll just both have to be here."

Waylon held up his palms. "Apparently." He drummed his hands on his knees for a second, then pulled out a folder that contained Waylon Jay's medical records and an outline of his earlier education under Cordelia's tutelage.

Principal Chalmers looked either annoyed by the chaos, or simply confused it all. It was hard for Waylon to be sure; and if he were to be honest he didn't much care.

"So," Chalmers began, trying to sort things out. "You are…"

Monty delicately touched his chest, taking the lead. "I, my gentle educator, am C. Montgomery Burns. Owner and Proprietor of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant." He gestured to Smithers. "This is my partner and plant co-owner, Waylon J. Smithers."

Chalmers nodded, taking it all in.

"We're here have our son enrolled in your fine educational establishment. Now, naturally, the quality of his academic experience is something of great concern to both of us."

Chalmers' eyes darted back and forth quickly between the two men. "Your… son…" he began slowly.

Waylon handed him the paperwork, cutting him off. " _My_ son; Mister Burns' godson."

"I'm sure," Monty added, "that a man like you can understand why the son of such a powerful man as my chap, Waylon here, would necessitate the instatement of a second legal guardian." He reached over and patted Waylon on the shoulder. "This man's work requires him to travel all over the country on business. Waylon's an architect and engineer in the growing nuclear field. His skillset is in high demand. In his absence, there needs to be someone he trusts to look out for his child. Alas, the youth's mother is not in a legal state to fulfil such a role, so I have humbly taken on the task; at my good Waylon's request. Isn't that right, my good man?"

"Absolutely," Waylon replied, nodding.

"I see," said Chalmers thoughtfully. "So, when it comes to who to list as the child's guardian in his records."

"Both our names will suffice," replied Monty casually.

"And either one of you is…"

"Authorized to make any and all decisions regarding the child's education and well-being. Yes, yes, get on with it," Monty snapped.

Chalmers spread the papers Waylon had handed him across his desk and made several notes with a pen. "I see," he replied carefully. "And young Waylon Junior will be starting this September. Does he go by a nickname, 'Junior'…?"

"Waylon Jay."

Chalmers repeated the name softly as he wrote it down on the top of an enrollment form. "Alright then." He passed the form over to Waylon and Monty. "If you gentlemen would be so kind as to sign on the parent and guardian lines respectively, I believe we can handle the rest of the paperwork from here."

Waylon Sr. signed, then slid the form to Monty, who read everything, then added his name before passing the paper back to Chalmers. "Is there anything else we should be aware of?" he asked.

"Will Waylon Jay be taking the bus, or will one of you be providing transportation?"

Waylon and Monty looked at each other. It was a question neither man had even thought of. "Eh, well…" Waylon leaned over and whispered something in Monty's ear. The older man nodded thoughtfully. An agreement was reached.

"For this year, I think, we shall field his transit; to help him adjust to the changes. But for the following years, no. He may take the bus."

Chalmers nodded. "Very well, then." He added a few more notes. "Is there anything else I can help you with, any questions you have for me about the school or our programs?"

Both Waylon and Monty shook their heads. "No, Principal Chalmers. I think that answers everything for now."

Monty rose, followed by Waylon.

"If anything does come up, we will be sure to contact you."

Chalmers nodded his head again. "Absolutely, gentlemen. It was a pleasure meeting with you."

They shook hands. "Likewise."

As Monty and Waylon headed out, Chalmers almost thought he caught the snippet of a muttered conversation between them. "… 'Our son,' really. Is discretion even part of your vocabulary anymore, Monty?"

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Waylon. What's it matter anyhow? He's in the school you wanted…"

Their hushed voices, bickering gently, disappeared down the hall.


	5. The Journal of WJS: My Son's Classmates

**From the Journal of WJS**

Waylon Jay seems to be taking quite a shine to school, despite Monty's obvious reservations. He's getting on with his classmates, and seems to be doing well in his learning. I'm sure it helps however, considering his upbringing. Monty and I tend to be prodigious readers: it stands to reason he would be ahead of his peers in such areas as reading and arithmetic. He's also shown a draw towards music. He gets that from his mother, I've no doubt.

Monty once tried teaching me to play the piano. It did not end in success.

I am given to consider what one of my professors taught our class, back when I was a university student: "Do not bother trying to teach physics to a baboon. It will only waste your time, and aggravate the baboon."

That sums up my musical attempts.

In watching Waylon Jay grow, I am given pause to wonder: how much truly is nature, and how much is nurture? At times, he truly seems as if he is Monty's son as well. As he gets older, I see less and less of my former wife in him. That's not a bad thing, nor is it good; it merely is. He does have her love of art and music though. Such traits that complemented me also mesh will with Monty, ironic considering how venomous the few exchanges he had with Waylon Jay's mother were. Ah, but that is the past, and there's little reason to belabor that.

Suffice to say, Waylon Jay is musically inclined, like Monty; and not at all like me.

I've started introducing Waylon Jay to the idea of chores around the manor. True, we have the staff for that, but a good work ethic is learned, not given. Monty, for all his wealth and resources, puts in ten hour days at the plant on average. Weekends are not necessarily a time off for him. Or for me. We both have obligations and expectations we have to meet.

I want Waylon Jay to espouse such views.

When I brought his up with Monty, he agreed; then we sat down and decided what jobs would be fair to ask a six year old boy to do. I think walking the hounds, and spot-mucking the stalls to be reasonable. Monty worries the hounds will drag him all over the grounds, or that the horses will kick him.

I think Monty's being over-protective of his darling. I tell him this, but it warms my heart nonetheless to see how he cares.

Tonight, I took Waylon Jay to the stables with me. I showed him how to use the pitch fork to sift out the manure balls from the straw, and use a shovel on the wet spots. To assuage Monty, of course, I made sure our horsemaster, Conrado, would turn the horses out to their pastures before Waylon Jay comes down. Monty may be somewhat over-cautious, but I do have to agree: some of the thoroughbreds are quite hot-blooded. I don't want to risk our son getting cornered in a stall by some of the more temperamental ones.

Monty's grey mare comes to mind. She is fierce, and hardly tolerates anyone other than him or Conrado. Fortunately, the other horses are not so excitable. Still, it's a bit more of a risk that I feel comfortably putting Waylon Jay in. Any time he is around the horses yet, we want him to be supervised.

Waylon Jay didn't balk as we worked side by side, and seems to understand the idea that this is his job. Perhaps it's just the novelty, but I am cautiously optimistic. While we worked, I took that moment to chat with him about school, find out how things were going. I asked if he'd made any friends.

He said he'd made two: a girl named Edna Lillingdorf, and a boy named Moe Szyslak. I asked more about them.

Edna, apparently, is a bright little thing who has big dreams. She wants to be a teacher.

Moe sounds like the sort of character I'd prefer Waylon Jay not associate with. Admittedly that may be my prejudice. He comes from a single parent home, and he sounds a bit course around the edges. I gather that because Waylon Jay says Moe likes to catch ants from different colonies, and make them fight.

I know it's just childhood shenanigans, but the idea of a child who enjoys making animals fight, even if they are just insects, has me a bit concerned about the sort of character he could grow into.

Later that night, I discussed my concerns with Monty after we'd gone to bed. He told me I was reading too much into things, that battling ants is hardly something to be concerned about, and it's an act the child will probably outgrow in time. "You can't tell me," he remarked, "that you've never done such a thing in your life."

I admitted I was the one who used to scoop worms off the sidewalk after the rains, so they would not get stepped upon.

Monty rolled his eyes at me, and shook his head.

"And yet you were the one who suggested guard dogs for the plant and manor," he remarked, laughing.

I was at a lost to defend myself. Perhaps he is right: my kindness extends more towards helpless animals than people. I am still not sure if the so-called 'foxhound leather' jacket he gave me is made out of real foxhounds. It's one of those things, given his nature, I think it best not to ask.

* * *

 **From the Journal of WSJ**

Monty and I had Edna Lillingdorf and her parents over for dinner tonight. We used the formal dining hall, and sat at opposite ends of the table on principle. Mister Lillingdorf sat at Monty's right hand, Missus Lillingdorf at mine. Edna and Waylon Jay sat in the middle.

Of course Monty objected at first, mostly because he prefers his privacy to guests. I said it was important we put on a show of good faith the parents of Waylon Jay's little friends, and how better to appear unexciting than a casual dinner where the children could play together afterwards.

Casual, I fear, has taken on a different meaning since I've lived at Burns Manor.

I realize now, how much I have changed from my days living in central Springfield to now. What I would've once considered extravagant, I now consider "casual." Admittedly, I felt a bit embarrassed once I realized how ostentatious our home truly appears to a first time guest.

Mister and Missus Lillingdorf seems more than a little taken back from the moment they walked in the door.

Edna is young. She doesn't see stuff such as 'class' yet. It's a good thing. Waylon Jay doesn't see it either. He came running down the floating staircase, grinning ear to ear. "Edna, Edna," he cried in delight. "Let me show you my room!"

She gave a happy sound of agreement.

Waylon Jay grabbed her by the hand. "Come on," he said, smiling. "It's upstairs!" And just like that, the two of them ran off in the playful delight of children.

It gave Monty and I time to talk to the Lillingdorfs. Mister Lillingdorf is a butcher down by the packing district. Missus Lillingdorf works at a daycare. They only have one child, Edna, and are glad for the chance for her to have a playmate.

Monty and I were in the middle of discussing their careers when Waylon Jay and Edna came flying into the sitting room. "Mommy, Daddy," Edna exclaimed, jumping into her parents' laps, "Waylon Jay has every Malibu Stacy doll ever! He even has her Santa Monica Dream House!" She held out a doll in her hand. "Look what he gave me!" Waylon Jay stood in the doorway, looking proud as Punch.

In her hand was an exclusive, limited edition Stacy that Waylon Jay had received as a gift. Edna was telling her parents how Waylon Jay hadn't even taken it out of the box; giving her the honor.

I admit I blanched slightly. It wasn't my son's generosity that made me wince, more the fact that I knew how much such a doll had cost. While the Lillingdorfs and Waylon Jay were distracted, I cast a sidelong glance at Monty, and gave a helpless shrug. _What do we do?_ I asked with my face and hands.

 _He has two of that one_ , Monty mouthed silently, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.

 _Two?_ I asked. _I gave him one for Christmas…_

 _And I can't keep track of who he has, he got the second for his birthday._ Monty made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

I shook my head, and let it go. I suppose there are far worse things in the world than a child who thinks of others.


	6. The Journal of WJS: Ideation of Phase2

_**Author's Note:**_

 _Some chapters, like this one, may be shorter than others. That is because I try to avoid mixing narrative styles in the same chapter. It can be confusing to read. As I mentioned, these chapters are snapshots. While some may follow directly, others may be separated by weeks, months, or possibly even longer. I don't see the need to tell every little bit that happens in their lives. I prefer to leave room for imagination._

 _This story is not written with the same overarching themes as some of my other pieces. It is meant to be fun, give glimpses into their family dynamic, and add some fun fluff as well. Sure, there will be moments of tension, but nothing will come to be matters of life and death._

 _This tale is to entertain, and show another world, perhaps less 'dramatic' than a world where Burns is tormented by the death of his partner, and vents his angst upon the tender flanks of Waylon Jr._

 _Drama and angst can make a delightful meal, but sometimes one is in the mood for something less heavy. That's what this is: lighter fare, consumed purely for enjoyment. It's not inspired by the gothic writers of the 1800s. It's cute, humorous, maybe a little racy here or there... and ultimately, it's to be read for fun. I know I'm enjoying sharing it. It's nice to take a break from tension and emotional drama. I hope you enjoy it as well._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

 **From the Journal of WJS**

Monty's been discussing expanding our little empire to include Shelbyville as well: a nuclear power plant for their floundering town. I agree the idea has potential. I still have all my plans from the construction of our Springfield facility. What Monty doesn't know is that I've been quietly working this in the background.

I know Shelbyville had expressed an interest in a nuclear plant, and that young upcomer Aristotle Amadopolis tried to rise to the occasion. He's new to the area, a young man of Grecian descent and Mediterranean money. Perhaps, if I took the time to know him he might be a friend… but no. I don't see that happening.

Monty is far too territorial, but he's been too preoccupied with Springfield to pay attention to the goings-on in Shelbyville.

I haven't told Monty this, but I stopped Amadopolis cold in his tracks. I blocked the Shelbyville Town Council from approving his purchase under a sub-clause in land acquisition requirements outlined by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. A little bit underhanded on my part, I suppose, but well worth it.

Amadopolis has money, but he lacks experience. A pretty boy riding the coat-tails of his parents' wealth, I'd imagine. Though what brought him to land in Shelbyville of all places I can't begin to fathom. It's my opinion that he's a nobody.

I must confess I intend to keep it that way.

However much I might support the idea of an open market economy, I dare say Monty and I are united in our goal to repel any competing advances in this region of North Tacoma.

Ah, that is one thing yet we shall always have in common: a desire to control our domain.

I've managed to tie up the Shelbyville land in a red-tape debacle that only I'd be able to unwind easily. It helps that I've known names in the NRC since the era of the now defunct Atomic Energy Commission.

Monty may have years under his belt, but he did hire me to handle all the legwork. I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't make connections of my own in the process. The fact that I dotted every _i_ , crossed every _t_ has worked well for me. When my name comes up, there is a level of inherent trust from the NRC. Waylon Joseph Smithers, a man beyond reproach! I've given no one any reasons to doubt my words.

Unlike Springfield, Shelbyville doesn't have the same soil consistency. There aren't very many choice sites along the river for building: all marsh and flood plains. This place is idea. Truthfully, it's the only acceptable site.

Monty and I have dinner planned next week: our eight year anniversary; or six year, depending on where you start counting from.

If one takes the date to be the year engraved on my watch, eight years.

If you count from my divorce, then it's merely six.

In the matter of ethics and good taste, I really should count from the year that Roberta and I were divorced. Someday too, I'll have to talk to Waylon Jay about her. He was too young to remember. It's a small mercy, I think. I never married her expecting things to fail; but that's the nature of things. My nature, her nature… my nature again… Would things have been any different if I hadn't met Monty?

Honestly, I don't think so. I went to visit her at New Bedlam the other month. She hardly recognizes me most days. I'm not even sure why I visit.

Monty doesn't approve. He thinks it doesn't help her or I in any way. I confess I don't have an answer. There's some vague sense of obligation, a desire for reconciliation, even though I know it won't happen.

Guilt too, perhaps.

Am I the reason she had a breakdown? Am I ultimately to blame for her condition and confinement?

Monty tells me no. He said that people cannot help but suffer the conditions they were prone to know. I asked him to clarify, and he said that some people always have a weakness for madness. It's not their fault, nor the fault of anyone around them, it simply is. _And_ , he added, _it's best we don't let ourselves be carried along by the madness of others, lest we lose ourselves in the tempest of someone else's mind._

For someone who claims only to like structured poetry, he does have a way with words; when he wants to, of course.

Ah, but that's enough pulling the scabs from that old wound. I should stop thinking of Roberta now, and focus on the task at hand: Shelbyville.

The land is only a few signatures and a cheque away from a deed in my name. Truthfully, if I wanted it, I could have it turned over to me before our night. I'm sorely tempted. Worst case scenario, Monty won't be interested, then I'll turn around and sell it to Amadopolis for more than I paid Shelbyville for it.

Actually, the more I consider that, the better that sounds. I'll have to throw Monty off my tracks, however. I'll let him think that Amadopolis secured land rights. That'll send him off after young little Amadopolis for a while, and give me the chance to get everything in order.

I can't wait to see his face. It'll be half of the surprise I have planned for him.


	7. Phase Two Revealed to Monty

Charles Montgomery Burns shifted his weight in the back seat of his limousine, where he sat next to his partner Waylon. He glanced periodically out the tinted window before finally remarking, "This isn't the way to The Guilded Truffle." His brow furrowed in confusion. "Waylon, do you think perchance Johan's gotten confused?" He reached up to tap on the glass to the driver's compartment, but Waylon stopped his hand.

Waylon's hazel eyes were sparkling with a familiar hint of mischief.

"Oh," Monty said, realization dawning. "You've put him up to this, have you?"

Waylon smiled with false innocence, but said nothing more.

Monty resigned himself to looking out the window, and wondering what his beloved had planned. He'd expected to take Waylon to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Springfield, but clearly that plan had been overruled. He should be angry, he thought. He should resent Waylon for taking the reins, but, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he rather liked it.

Monty started to ask where they were going, but Waylon reached out a single finger and laid it across Monty's lips. "Shhh," he whispered. "Don't talk. Just relax." He leaned closer and kissed Monty lightly on the neck. "I've taken care of everything."

The limo headed east, then south, following the curve of the river towards the harbor. Finally, Johan pulled to a stop and stepped out, opening the door for Monty. Waylon followed. They stood alone on the wooden pier, Johan a respectful distance away. The tall manservant clasped his hands behind his back, expression neutral. Along the sides hung several lanterns, candle-lit, giving a beautifully subtle glow. Several ships sat at various docks, shadows against the darkening sky.

Nestled in a berthing, rocking gently with the waves, was white yacht, the hull illuminated by tiny indirect lights, basking the ship from stem to stern with light. "I thought we might take dinner to go," Waylon suggested, nodding with his head towards the yacht.

Standing at the edge of the pier beside the ship was a young captain, his curly blond hair tucked as neatly as possible under a mariner's cap. He wore a white coat, and matching white pants, embroidered with gold trim.

Monty felt Waylon's hand at the small of his back, guiding him forward as they walked.

Johan had silently fallen into step behind them.

"Mister Smithers, Mister Burns," the captain removed his cap and bowed, "it is my pleasure to welcome you aboard this evening." He replaced his cap, tucked a few stray curls back into place and smiled. "I hope everything is to your liking. Dinner has been fully prepared, and I believe your man, Johan, has boarded already and is making himself useful in the galley. If you would be so kind as to join me, I will show you to your cabin, then to the galley."  
Monty sidled closer to Waylon, and whispered his concerns: "How long will we be out for?"

"Until tomorrow," Waylon replied comfortably.

"Is he discrete?"

Waylon nodded. "I did my research Monty. Captain Montague was recommended to me especially the height of discretion, Johan himself."

Monty snorted softly as Waylon followed him up the gangplank. "I wish you wouldn't ask the servants such things. It's improper."

"I'm simply using my resources." Waylon's hand slid slightly lower, resting on the slight curve of Monty's lean backside, lingered for a moment, then dropped away.

Monty found he missed the presence of Waylon's palm on his ass. He also noted the ship felt much larger on the inside. Their cabin, a spacious room the captain referred to as "the stateroom" featured a private bath, and a single queen-sized bed in the center. Windows along both sides afforded a view of the darkening ocean. Monty realized he should not have been surprised to see a change of clothes had been hung in the closet, and his slippers resting beneath the bed.

Waylon's ever-present and bedraggled looking leather messenger bag was hanging over the back of a chair. Monty shook his head as Waylon made a quick detour over and removed a letter-sized cream envelope from his satchel. He slipped it into his vest, out of sight. _Probably a tip for the captain_ , Monty reasoned.

"You've evidently spent quite some time planning this," he remarked to Waylon as they followed Montague to the galley.

Waylon smiled. "You surprised me with that trip into the mountains, the least I could do was return the favor."

"Yes, my dear friend," Monty pointed out. "But I own that cabin. I daresay you don't own a yacht."

Waylon raised an eyebrow. "Not a yacht, no."

In the small galley, a fantastic meal had been laid out. Steaks, dry aged then cooked to perfection. Seared vegetables of various exotic colors. There were potatoes, of course. Waylon always said nothing went quite so well with steak as potatoes, though Monty would beg to differ on that.

Johan, apron around his waist, had finished setting their places, and took his familiar spot behind Monty's chair. Waylon and Monty sat down. Johan poured them each a glass of wine, and dimmed the lights. Captain Montague gave them a bow. "We'll be setting a course for the deep ocean tonight, wherein we shall stay out with the stars. I'll meet you after you've finished your dinner, where drinks will be served on the moon deck. By your leave, gentlemen." He gave another little bow, and backed out; trotting up the stairs towards the wheel house.

There was a faint change in the vibration of the deck plates, a gentle thrumming that came up through their feet. Monty glanced out the broad window as the ship idled away from the pier. "Probably a crew onboard," he remarked, quietly cutting his steak.

Waylon nodded thoughtfully. "Given the same instructions as your servants at the manor: to stay as out of sight as possible." He glanced at Johan. "Present company excluded, of course, Johan."

"Of course, Herr Smithers," Johan replied, with a formal nod of his head.

The two men ate and made light conversation as the ship steamed away from the shoreline and the lights of Springfield.

* * *

Waylon poured a small amount of cognac into the snifter Monty held out to him. They were nestled together on a wide bunk, tucked under a wool blanket and the night sky. The air was cold but still. Two bodies and a heap of blankets kept the chill away ever so nicely.

"Perhaps you were right," Monty remarked, as he took a sip. "The stars do appear brighter away from the earthy haze."

Waylon raised his glass. "Happy anniversary, my love."

Their glasses clinked together.

"This has been a wonderful present," Monty remarked, watching the sky.

"You seem to like the night, and I wanted to surprise you," Waylon remarked, not taking his eyes off Monty.

"Well, my man," Monty, "consider your mission a success."

"Oh," Waylon began with a smirk, "this isn't the half of it." He reached into his vest and pulled out the envelope he'd pocketed earlier.

"What have you got there, Waylon," Monty asked.

Waylon tapped the envelope against his chin. An impish smile was beginning to form on his lips. "Well, I was just going to read it to you, Monty," he teased. "But I think perhaps you would like to read it for yourself."

Monty reached for the envelope, but Waylon drew it back, just out of reach. "Ah, it'll cost you, my dear."

Monty huffed and folded his arms under the blankets. "I see. And what price are you going to charge me tonight, you rogue?" He debated trying to snatch the envelope, but that would require untangling himself from the blankets. Monty found he had no desire to leave the warm nest he'd made. Let stout Waylon expose himself to the elements; he, Monty Burns, was happy where he was.

Waylon held the envelope out of reach, and leaned forward. "Just a kiss."

Monty looked surprised. "That's it?"

Waylon shrugged, and peered up at the stars. "For now, it's enough."

Monty leaned over and grasped Waylon's cheek in his hand. He drew the man's mouth to his. Their lips met. He opened his mouth slightly, as Waylon flicked his tongue gently over his teeth. Soon, they were locked in a passionate embrace, Monty's mind completely distracted from the letter.

Waylon pressed his body atop Monty; and the thin man gasped in surprise. It was rare for Waylon to be the dominant one, making the first move, _taking_ what he wanted. Monty raised a hand to resist on principle, but Waylon wrapped his free hand around Monty's wrist and pinned it beside Monty's head.

He threw a leg over Monty's lean frame, and pressed him down, into the blankets. Monty's breath hitched in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to have Waylon right there, and be damned who might see them.

Monty reached up and knotted his fingers in Waylon's short hair as best he could, biting and kissing the length of Waylon's neck. Waylon's hand released his wrist and slid down his chest, moving delightfully lower. He closed his eyes in anticipation…

… And received a quick swat atop the head with the envelope Waylon still held.

"Yes," Waylon remarked, hazel eyes dark against the cold starlight, "just a kiss will do for now. I think you've earned this."

"Cheeky scoundrel," Monty remarked with fake annoyance. He snatched the envelope, and tore it open with a long finger. Slowly he reached in and pulled out the folded paper within.

Monty Burns had lived long enough to recognize a land deed when he saw it, but even his keen eyes couldn't make out the finer details. He reached over, and turned up the gas lamp that hung next to them. "Lot 45A. Shelbyville. Owner: W. J. Smithers." He furrowed his brow. "Waylon, what exactly is this?"

His partner Waylon smiled, removed his glasses, and wiped the lenses nonchalantly. "Oh that? Just some land along the Shelbyville River. A few hundred acres. Nothing too fancy…"

"Then why…" Monty began. Then it hit him. His eyes widened in surprise. "You!"

Waylon gave his trademark smirk. "Technically, us."

"This is the land Amadopolis bought-"

"-Tried to buy," Waylon corrected, holding up a hand. "The future site of Phase Two. If you're looking to expand, that is. Yours, if you want it."

Monty's blue eyes shown with their own inner fire. "Oh yes, Waylon. I absolutely want that." He read the deed twice to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Owned in full?"

Waylon shrugged innocently, and pulled the blankets up closer around his neck.

Monty shook his head, correcting himself. "Of course you would've bought it in full. Why do I even ask." His voice betrayed a hint of wonder. "What can I do to repay you for this?"

Waylon slid a hand under the covers, and traced the contours of Monty's chest thoughtfully. "I can think of a few things. Care to join me below deck? These stars have been here thousands of years. I think they'll be fine without your watching them for one night at least." His hand slid across Monty's lap, and lingered just long enough.

"Because," Waylon added, leaning in conspiratorially, "if we don't go below soon, I won't be held accountable to for what those stars are going to witness next." He slipped his fingers into the waist of Monty's trousers, against the older man's skin.

Monty leapt to his feet. "Well, that's enough star gazing for tonight," he exclaimed as he stretched theatrically, then reached down to readjust himself. His pants had become highly constricting in these past few moments. "Time for bed; eh Waylon?"

Waylon Smithers Sr slithered out from under the blankets and draped them over his arm. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Monty." He lifted the gas lantern from its hook and turned down the flame.

Monty had barely made it three steps before Waylon's arms were about his waist once again.

"Dash it man," he remarked in mock irritation. "How are we ever going to retire if you keep distracting me like that."

Waylon released Monty's svelte frame and raised his hands. "I cry your pardon," he crowed, laughing. "I, oh how would you say it, I shan't hinder your further attempts to retire. Something like that?"

 _Oh, you'll hinder them plenty yet_ , Monty though deliciously. Envelope clutched in on hand, Waylon's palm in the other, the two men made their way to the stateroom below deck; where sleep was the last thing on either of their minds.


	8. Winning at Chess

Waylon Smithers Jr., known to Monty and his father as Waylon Jay, stood by the low table in the Library, absentmindedly stroking the ragged plush Doberman in his hands. He couldn't remember when he got it, but he'd had it his entire life. The Doberman and some iteration of Malibu Stacey seldom left his company for long. Aside from school, of course. During those hours, the Doberman and Stacey patiently awaited his return in his bedroom upstairs. It wouldn't be dignified for a grown up second-grader to be carrying around toys. At home, however, it was a different matter altogether.

He and the Doberman watched the board quietly. The sunlight shone in through the translucent curtains that had been drawn. They didn't block the light so much as give it a soften it, turning it from sharp beams to a misty glow.

His fathers were hunched over a white and green chess board, malachite and marble, the pieces intricately carved. It had been a hard-fought game. The sidelines were littered with pieces, captured without remorse. They often engaged in a chess match, sometimes in the library, or perhaps in Monty's study. Occasionally, when the weather was nice they'd sit down in the garden. There, amongst the flowers and droning insects, Monty and Waylon Sr. would pour all their focus into the tiled battlefield.

Monty had started teaching Waylon Jay to play chess shortly after he started first grade. Though Waylon Jay knew the movements of the pieces, he wasn't particularly good at it. It was a slow game, requiring a great deal of concentration; not easy for a lively boy. He still preferred checkers. There was something incredibly satisfying about announcing "king me!" when one of his pieces made it to the opposite side of the board.

His father and Monty seemed to enjoy the chess game though. Sometimes, they'd play a single game for hours, carefully deliberating before each move. Waylon Jay knew both men were thinking, planning moves out in their heads.

 _Chess is a game of strategy, like business_ , Monty explained. _Many a great negotiation can be had over this game of kings_. Monty had gone on to explain the game mirrored the strategy of war. Pawns were foot-soldiers, knights were mounted cavalry. The rook and bishop were artillery weapons, and the king was the headquarters.

 _Packing up headquarters is an arduous process, and ineffective_ , Monty continued, running his finger over the head of the marble figure. _That's why the king can only move one space at a time, but he can still go in any direction_.

 _What's the queen?_ Waylon Jay asked, curious.

 _Monty himself_ , his father replied with a chortle.

The remark had confused Waylon Jay, but despite his father's laughter and Monty's eyerolling, neither man offered further explanation. So the boy stood, and watched while the older men played their games. At first, he thought Monty the superior player. The old man always won.

As Waylon Jay grew older, more attuned to the nuances of the game, he began to see a pattern. The match often progressed at a fairly even clip, with pieces being captured equally by both men. Waylon Jay sat to the side, and counted the points silently in his head, figuring out who had the stronger army. For most of the battle, his father remained just a few points ahead of Monty.

Then, towards the end, things inevitably changed.

His father would make a single, careless mistake. Something even Waylon Jay knew was a foolish move.

Monty would give a cackle of glee, and proceed to make short work of the remaining match. It happened every time.

This time was no different.

After several minutes of stroking his moustache and thinking, Waylon Sr. moved his bishop across the board, placing it near to Monty's king.

Senior hesitated a moment, or appeared to. He kept his finger atop the bishop, and massaged his chin with his free hand.

Waylon Jay saw the bishop was directly diagonal to a pawn, the pawn beside Monty's king. And behind that pawn, Monty's queen was waiting. He cleared his throat, trying to catch his father's attention. If that pawn moved out of the way, captured his father's bishop, Monty's next move would be to put his queen down the long file, and place Monty's own king into check.

Wait, not check, there was nothing to defend it. Checkmate!

Waylon Jay coughed again. His father looked up, concerned. "Do you need a drink, Jay?"

The boy tilted his head, trying to be both subtle, and clear at the same time. Waylon Sr.'s eyes followd his son's to the board. There was a flicker of understanding. Waylon Joseph Smithers Senior gave a slight tilt of his head, and removed his finger from the bishop. There was no recanting his decision now.

Monty tented his fingers and beamed in delight. "Oh ho, my good man, a valiant move, but I fear terribly short-sighted. Alas, you cannot blame a man for capitalizing on it!"

Monty Burns captured Senior's bishop, and in two moves, just like Waylon Jay had predicted, the match was done.

"Check mate!" Burns declared proudly, standing up from the table. "Ah, my dear Waylon, you're getting better, but still no match for old Monty Burns yet! Someday, perhaps, but not today." Humming to himself, Monty strutted out of the library, head held high.

Waylon Senior started delicately putting the pieces back in their box.

"I see what you did there," Waylon Jay finally said, flopping down into Monty's vacant, but still warm chair.

"Hmm?" asked his father, not looking up, "and what's that?"

"You're letting him win, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

Waylon Sr. raised his head, and smiled. "Ah, you've noticed that, have you?"

"Yes. Why?"

The boy watched his father silently pack the remaining white pieces, then start on the green.

"It's simple, really. Winning means more to him than it does to me… and seeing him _happy_ means more to _me_ than winning." He tented his fingers and regarded his son thoughtfully.

Waylon Jay ran his fingers over the Doberman's ragged felt ears. "That doesn't make any sense," he confessed, frowning slightly.

His father reached out, patted his cheek gently. "It will when you're older. In the meantime, just take it for what it is, and know there are some things in this world more important than winning."


End file.
